


Cold is the Artic Sea

by justahufflepuff



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:10:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justahufflepuff/pseuds/justahufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of working under the great composer Ayrs, Robert Frobisher's life takes a different turn.</p>
<p>And whaling is much harder than it looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letters from the Atlantic, Pt 1

Sixsmith,

I am beginning to think that whaling was, perhaps, not the life for me. The realization has come a tad too late as we’re two weeks away from any sort of land and you won’t even get these letters for much, much longer, as they’ve got to go back the way they came and cross the ocean all over again. All considered I could have made a worse choice. I don’t know what possessed me to turn down a stay with Ayrs, he’s the greatest composer of our time and it truly was a rare chance. He needed a scribe, I could have learned more than I ever believed. Yet instead I am here, posing as the son of an old sailor. Silly me. You know as well as I that music has always been my second greatest love. If you are in any sort of doubt as to my first greatest love then I have not done my job properly. There’s a limited amount of paper on board, and my coveted supply of composition paper remains hidden away. For now, this is all I can manage.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith, 

The ocean moves in ways I can barely manage to describe correctly. It starts like the roll of your hips and the swell of a crescendo and then drops without warning, leaving a person (or a small vessel) suspended in time and faith before reunion. Some days it is a smooth and clear as polished buttons, others more crotchety than the watchmen back at Keys.

One of my crewmates nearly caught me writing you last night, I just barely managed to get everything hidden away. I can’t imagine they would take too kindly to me, if they knew the truth. A composer on a whaler does not exactly bode well for business. Though I suppose it must bode well for the whales. They’ve cottoned on that I perhaps don’t have the sea legs I promised them, but that much they are willing to live through. I am a fast learner.

Regardless I have taken to writing you at nights now. You’ll have to pardon any wax stains. I can’t quite time the rolling of the waves, and the wax drips. The cargo hold is damp and smells of whale blubber, but the smell is well worth the pay off.

You won’t receive these letters until we’ve made land in Iceland take on more supplies. Even after that they still must travel back the way I’ve just come. Perhaps I will return to you before my letters. What a novel idea.

The second mate is coming.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

It’s bloody cold on this ship. I know what you’ll say, Sixsmith. You’ll give me that look you save for when you’re pretending not to be irrepressibly fond of me and tell me that I ought to have packed more coats than parchment. A man does have his vices, and without you around to pack my bags I indulged most readily in mine. How else will I keep you informed of life at sea, if not through letters? The months between our eventual reunion could in fact turn to years. Seems an awful long time to keep hold of details. Stop giving me that look. I can always acquire more clothing when we land in Iceland.

Besides, your scarf and your waistcoat serve me fabulously. The cook laughs himself silly at the sight of me in something so fancy at dinner, but I don’t quite mind. It keeps my shirt close to my body and that much warmer. Besides it was once yours. Call me sentimental all you like.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

I can now climb the rigging as well as any other sailor, and have requested the night watch. The others may find it odd. Mostly they are glad to stay below deck where the temperature is marginally more passable. The captain says we won’t see any whales this side of the islands. Instead I watch for other ships: merchant, whalers, pirates. It’s a very still watch. Often I bring these letters and my music with me for company.

The stars shine so much brighter at sea, Sixsmith. More so than I could ever have thought possible. It’s as if the universe dims for the city. Not even on the top of the cathedral could you find a view this beautiful. Except, perhaps, the sight of you coming undone beneath me.

It reminds me of Corsica in a way, Corsica with its incandescent waves and its proclivity towards murder. What does it say about us that we fell in love there, of all the places in the world? What does that say about the sort of lives we must lead? 

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

It’s a good thing I have always been charming. Tensions on the ship are running high. Many of the crew grow anxious to spot a whale and make their money, as the captain has kindly informed us we will not get paid the second half of our earnings if we return to England without blubber and lard. Sometimes I find myself wondering whether or not our captain knows as any more than I do about this business. Then again who am I to judge his worth on something I have never experienced?

At least we are assured the first portion once we reach Iceland. Despite my earlier claims, I could use a good thick coat.

Yours eternally,  
RF


	2. Letters From Iceland

Sixsmith,

My humblest apologies for the break between letters. You will not notice the difference, but I have. They almost caught me writing the other day. Luckily the more damning of the letters have already been bundled for the trip back to you. The stack I had with me had to meet an unfortunate acquaintance with the Atlantic. Several sheets of unused paper went with them and to my eternal regret the start of a sonata I had begun composing, inspired by the wind through sails in a storm. It was admittedly not my best work but it represented progress and the first piece of music written in my travels. 

Iceland treats me well. We only stay for two days: one to rest and unload any unnecessary cargo, the second to refill the larder (an act our cook refers to as: ‘stuffing the wooden turkey’. He laughs straight from his belly every time. I would enjoy the phrase more if didn’t make me feel as if I was part of the stuffing.) I have put myself somewhere close to the dock; quiet and well meaning and also gloriously heated. Oh how a man can forget the warmth of a fire he does not have to coax and bribe into existence. 

Purchased that coat I mentioned. It is thick and warm and assured to get me through several winters. The woman who sold it to me also included a pair of reindeer lined gloves. Though I’ve not seen any of the creatures these magnificent items came from I imagine they must live very warm, insulated lives.

I do love the solitude of a hotel room. Here I am free to write you and compose without the constant fear of a body over my shoulder. (This, I believe, will explain the length.)

Tonight I watched the sky leap into life, full of colors and dancing. Sixsmith I can hardly do justice to the way that the greens and blues covered the expanse of the horizon. They moved as if people. I have no proper way to describe the scene that still plays on the canvas of my closed eyelids. It was as beautiful as a sonata in E Major, the tempo changing in downbeats from quick to soft and seductive. The notes practically painted themselves across the navy sky. I could see them all so clearly, Sixsmith. More clearly than I have ever seen a thing before. I doubt there is anything in the world quite like this.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

This is less of a letter and more of a missive.

I miss you.

Yours eternally,  
RF


	3. Letters from the Atlantic, Pt 2

Sixsmith,

Back on the blasted ship once more. I do believe this will prove my first and only adventure on the high seas. For all the crisp nights and gorgeous sights I do not think I will ever fully adapt to the roll of the floor beneath my feet, or the lack of a warm body already nestled in my sheets. What I will miss are late nights on the crow’s nest with the aurora borealis lighting my paper and the vast hitherto unnoticed empire of stars above me. Lately I have taken to teaching myself their names and stories, marking their progress across the sky with notes and rests. It is becoming something truly and wholly beautiful, Sixsmith. The first thing I will aim to do (our reunion excluded) upon my return is to etch every note into a piano, tease out the crescendos and show the world the night sky I have loved.

We picked up some new crewmembers in Iceland though I do not know where we possibly managed to fit them. Our second mate grumbled about overcrowding and the size of the cargo hold, but the captain waved him off and purchased another harpoon. This boat is nothing more than a glorified university dormitory, but a dormitory might end up with more space. The storage bay and the crow’s nest remain my best and only options for solitude. Men write home every day but I do not wish for them to find these. Call me selfish but I wish to keep you entirely to myself.

Yours eternally,

RF

 

Sixsmith,

The first mate spotted two whales. Let the hunt begin.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

It is official: I am not cut out for life on the open water. Or rather I am not cut out for the life of cutting things open. The captain swears it’s normal for a new crewmember to throw up at the sight of whale blood splashed across the deck. It smelt like nothing I had ever encountered before, the rotting waste of the markets and the streets magnified to unbearable. Perhaps I should have stuck to our love affair and my compositions.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

  
They have mercifully decided to let me stay aboard the ship during hunts. Now I have the thankless and stinking task of boiling down whale blubber. It’s damn useful, we keep some untouched for grease, cooking and medical reasons, but it smells like burning silk and that caviar my father loves so much. It’s thoroughly unpleasant. However I no longer have to watch men fight the glories of nature in a small boat. Instead I melt down the glories of nature in a slightly larger one. Deliciously ironic, isn’t it? I must confess it’s something I occasionally chuckle about when left to my own devices.

Yours eternally,  
RF  
  
PS: I do hope you don’t mind the scores in the corners of your letters. You must indulge me, dear Sixsmith, I am trying to conserve on paper. There is still the trip home to consider after all.

 

Sixsmith,

The farther north we go the colder it gets. We aren’t allowed to light more than one fire a day. It will be months till we see ground again and we can’t exactly start breaking off bits of the ship for warmth. They said a life at sea hardened a man. Somehow I did not picture that process involving quite so much ice. 

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith, 

I wish I could show you an iceberg. It is truly like nothing I can describe. All of Spain’s cathedrals pale in comparison. They are so much more than the simple floating ice I thought them when I embarked. It is like watching a sleeping giant up close. Nothing can describe the sheer mass of them, looming on the horizon like a crescendo that won’t end. Combined with the night sky I can scarcely breathe from the wonder of it all. Along the margins I have attempted to capture it in notes: a sextet, something grand and swelling, with violins that weep ice and cellos for the shine of the sun or the moon. Sometimes I wish they had a piano on this ship as impractical as it would surely be. I would gladly sleep among the keys if it would help me capture the awe of the north.

One of the downsides of the north: it truly is freezing. I haven’t taken either of my coats off in weeks. Good thing we smell awful or I might have reason to complain.

Yours eternally,  
RF

  
Sixsmith,  
  
I miss the warmth of your body around my own and the way we always folded together. While I have adjusted most admirably to life on the sea (hardly anyone teases me any more), I cannot help but long for a large bed with you in it, and perhaps something warm and filling to drink.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

We’ve killed two whales. There is land on the horizon.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

The rain turns to ice as it falls from the sky. Navigating the deck provides more danger than the whaling expeditions. We carry short axes if we need to get up the crows nest. Winter has barely begun. The captain says the worst has yet to hit us. He looks at the clouds ahead with worry embedded into his face but I cannot see something lurking beneath it. He can barely see what comes towards us either. I do not like admitting it, but I am afraid.

  
Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

Snow on the water is a queer thing. While it does not affect the rolling waves, it collects on the decks and the boat around us. It’s a beautiful sight but not one I can quite welcome any more. The captain swears that whales lurk beyond the icy sheets of water before us. Sometimes at night I can almost hear them singing.  When I close my eyes I can imagine it perfectly. Whale song calls deeper than cello or a bassoon ever could. It sings right to your bones. Someday I hope you will hear it.

Yours eternally,  
RF  


Sixsmith,  
  
I am sorry for the long delay in letters. You haven’t noticed them, surely, but I have. We broke the ice into the bay weeks ago, hunting our elusive prey. Winter has set in and the ice refroze. 

Rufus, I am afraid we will not get out.

Yours eternally,  
RF


	4. Letters from Frobisher Bay

Sixsmith,

I have been ordered to catalogue our remaining food and supplies. If we can break the ice, we will make it back to Iceland only two days short on food. The cook has put everyone on starvation rations: the bare minimum needed to keep a man alive. They have set teams out to start breaking the ice. It is a sliver of hope but we will take what we can get.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

They’ve broken some of the ice. Progress is slow going, and we’re running low on oil. The Captain doesn’t want to start burning the whale blubber until we have no options left.

Yours eternally,  
RF

  
Sixsmith,

Sometimes I close my eyes and I can see you in front of me. It’s a welcome image, and one I cling to quite selfishly. In my mind, you look as you did on the beaches of Corsica, tanned and laughing. You throw your head back and as the light plays along your neck I cannot remember loving anything more.

When I return I will ink my compositions onto the bare parchment of your back. The notes will carry the weight of you and your beauty will serve as they only orchestra my mind will ever need.

Forgive me. The cold makes me sentimental.

Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Sixsmith,

It is so cold. The light does not reach us often this far north. We cannot afford to light more lamps. I write you in the dark. Today one of the crew fell into the water while trying to axe us out. One less mouth to feed, though we will sorely miss his axe. 

Yours eternally,

RF

 

Sixsmith,

One of the rowers sat out on the deck too long. The fingers on his right hand turned black. He can no longer use them.

Yours eternally,

RF

 

Sixsmith,

We’ve had made more progress out of this bay. But not much. It is, to the say the least, disheartening. Perhaps we can make it out of this bay before the sun disappears from the sky completely. The ice I found beautiful has turned more dangerous that I could ever imagine.

There is not much to do on this boat now. Look out duties have been all but abandoned. The sun has stopped shining for the majority of the day. I miss your lips against my skin and your fingers in my hair. You would keep me warm.

Yours eternally,   
RF

 

Sixsmith,

The worst of news: while moving the boat, ice pierced the hull. It is high enough that we won’t take on water in this bay but we are no longer sea worthy. None of the settlements are close enough to walk. I do not think I am going to be able to see you again.  
  
Now more than ever,  
Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Rufus,

There is no use for formalities any more, my dear. The first mate sat outside on the deck uncovered. For a long time we huddled below deck and thought of what to do with him. Some suggested we eat him. The dried meat is running low. But there are certain lines that we refuse to cross. We pushed his frozen body overboard.   
  
The captain looked at all of us, eyes devoid of hope. He put his hat on his head and walked slowly back to his quarters. Later that night we heard the shot wring out from his cabin.

I will not let that happen to me.  
  
Yours eternally,  
RF

 

Rufus,

The music late at night fills my ears. Around me, the boat moves with the current. The wood groans low and constant, pressure destroying us as surely as the cold. It cuts right to the core of me: a constant metronome of slow terror. Above it all the music still sounds, still swells. I’ve scratched it down on every surface I can manage. Hopefully you can read my words through the notations. There is an orchestra in my head and it gets louder by the hour.

Yours eternally,

RF

 

Rufus,

Both the first mate and the cook have died. I’ve locked myself in the cargo hold with what remains of the food and the whale blubber. It’s not entirely terrible. For example I can no longer notice the awful stench. All that fills my mind is my music and you. I believe that I penning my masterpiece on this death ship. When the ink runs out (and it will, soon) I’ll cover the walls in blubber. 

When I close my eyes I see the aurora borealis above the icebergs, I trace your spine as you stretch, I watch the stars flicker in and out of focus from the frosted night sky, I taste the salt of your skin, I smell the ice cold and harsh on the air.  
  
It is so, so beautiful. 

I am so desperately alive.

Yours eternally,  
Robert

 

Rufus,

I am not sure how much longer I can do this.

Yours eternally,  
Robert

 

Rufus,  
  
Not sure how many people are left besides me. I heard some of them leaving, talking about the mainland. Sorry but I do not think I could go with them. My legs are too weak and the music has quite a hold on me. The letters are short, I know, but rest assured my affection is not.  
  
Yours eternally,   
Robert

 

Rufus,

  
Food has run out. I cannot eat the last of the whale blubber, as I need it for my final movement. I am down to the last dregs of the oil as well. Frostbite sets in quickly so I must work fast.

  
Yours eternally,  
Robert

 

Rufus,

I am so


End file.
